Lavender Vows (Medieval Herb Garden 1)

He’d given Ralf too little credit—for the man had selected very skilled jousters to challenge him. Their intent was not to up-end him from the saddle, but to injure him in a manner that would keep him from his best. All of them had struck the same place—purposely. And now Ralf had chosen to put the finish on him before claiming victory.

Weary, but his teeth clenching hard enough to take his mind from his throbbing shoulder, Bernard chose another lance and, adjusting his shield, turned to face his opponent.

Twice more.

They charged as the signal was given, galloping down the list toward each other at breakneck speed. Bernard felt sweat slick his hand, but he held fast, determined to knock the bastard onto

the ground this time.

He concentrated as Ralf sped toward him, picking out his faint slant in the saddle, looking for an opening—and found it. He leveled the long lance, aiming, forgetting the pain in his shoulder by thinking of what Joanna had lived through. Just as they met, just as the other lance brushed his shoulder, Bernard twisted slightly and found his mark. The other lance slipped harmlessly up and over his shield and the other man teetered in his seat.

Bernard and Rock roared past Ralf, and only the disappointed groan from the crowd told him that his opponent had recovered. He cursed the luck of the devil, and spun his mount around to choose his last lance.

Breathing heavily, Bernard took little care in selecting the lance offered by Rowan. He trusted his squire, and meant only to get back to the lists for the final pass. His shoulder’s ache had lessened slightly, but when he moved to steady his long halberd, the pain shot down his arm.

The last time.

He sensed the fury and hatred emanating from the other man—waves of it came across the field—and it seemed as though the watchers felt it too, for a near hush fell over them. Only the sound of Rock stamping his feet, and the jingle of mail and bridle, fell on his ears…. or mayhap ’twas just that he concentrated so solidly.

The cry to arms bellowed from the announcer, and he kicked Rock forward. They nearly flew through the air, smoothly, as one. The intensity of his pain diminished as he sighted the lance on Ralf’s shield, focusing on the place that would dump him from the saddle.

He leaned forward, urging Rock on, holding the lance steady as they barrelled toward Ralf.

One moment more…

He fought the hovering pain as he gripped the lance, steadying it, ready to thrust it forward….

Thump!

Pain crashed over him as he took the brunt of Ralf’s own blow in his shoulder, even as his lance connected with the other man’s shield. With a howl of rage, Bernard held steady and gave one last thrust as they passed by.

He heard the roar of the crowd dimly through hot, white streaks that shot up his arm and across his shoulder. Gasping for air, he turned Rock around in time to see Ralf struggling to his feet. A faint lift of one side of his mouth was all he could managed as he galloped past the stands and to his father and squire.

Bastard.

V.

Joanna smoothed the crinkling paper, examining the black marks that identified the labyrinth of tunnels beneath Wyckford Heath Hall. Even as a young girl, she’d heard stories of the passages that led out of the keep, but had never been able to find them.

She’d also heard the tales that treasures hidden centuries earlier by the Saxons during the Anglo invasion were still in the tunnels below. Therein lay Ralf’s interest in the map—while hers rested only in the freedom it would gain her.

She rolled the map and tucked it behind a loose stone near the fireplace, for she hadn’t time to make a false sketch for Ralf before he returned from the tournament.

At the thought of the competition, a great rush of warmth surged through her as she recalled the mighty, powerful Bernard—how he rode his steed, and wielded his lance in too many challenges to count. She’d watched him, swelling with pride and nearly crying when he was struck with bone-shattering blows—yet he’d remained in his saddle as a fresh and untested Ralf had not.

Maris had rushed to see to his hurts after the last challenge while Joanna returned to her chamber, grieving the fact that she could not attend him as well.

Instead, she relived the gentle moment with him in the stable loft, where they’d come together in a passionate kiss that still caused her heart to race. She might be damned for wanting and kissing another man whilst she was bound to another, but in her heart of hearts, she believed that God—who helped those who helped themselves—would not judge her too harshly. For was not love the greatest gift?

Bernard was the first person in her life to truly show her love.

The door to the chamber flew open and Joanna turned, startled, to see Ralf limp in. His face held no expression as he stared at her. Her middle dropped and she moved to stand by her stool at the fire, keeping her expression carefully blank.

Without relieving her from his gaze, Ralf shoved the door behind him, and it closed with a dull thud that made sweat spring to her temples. Her voice wavered. “May I tend to you—”

“Silence!” His voice lashed across the room.

Joanna swallowed, her heart thumping so hard that she thought it would burst from her chest. Ralf took a step toward her…then another. “Do you gloat at my defeat this day?”